


Comedian

by Jak_the_ATAT



Category: Call of Duty (Video Games)
Genre: Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, I blame KnifingGale for falling for this ship, I was really bored and feeling sappy last night, I'm going down with the ship, Mild descriptions of violence, Poisoning, Religion, Romance, Sink the boat, Stitch is a nice guy, Terminal Illness, fem!Bell
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-08
Updated: 2021-01-08
Packaged: 2021-03-12 14:00:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,490
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28636674
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jak_the_ATAT/pseuds/Jak_the_ATAT
Summary: Bell's days are numbered after Adler shot her. Thankfully, Stitch won't let her spend those days alone.
Relationships: Bell/Vikhor "Stitch" Kuzmin
Comments: 4
Kudos: 23





	Comedian

**Author's Note:**

> While I wrestle my kid!Bell fic, I thought it might be nice to add fic to match the number of Supernatural fics I have mwahahaha
> 
> On a serious note, this came out of a brainchild of KnifingGale (tumblr: yunatheintrovert) in which Bell is terminally ill. And it seemed too good to pass up. 
> 
> Also, I listened to "Leave Her Johnny" on repeat while writing this so if that isn't a dead giveaway... 
> 
> I've said enough. On to the show!

"I'm going to die."

It's only a small realization of reality. Nothing more. But it hurts to hear from her mouth. And I’ve learned to despise those words.

We sit on the edge of a cliff, the view far more pleasant than the one she earned a bullet through the brain at. Now, she’s living the consequences of an action not even her own fault. Lead toxins took hold far faster than predicted, leading to a decline in her health until, just a few months later, she was hardly more than some skin and bones. Her brain has become bugged. Some weeks, she can't even smile, digging a hole into depression until she pulls herself out in another week. The worst part: there's nothing I can do to get her help. A doctor's visit for medication would only land her in a ward of some type.

And yet…

"We're all going to die," I tell her, my raspy voice working its way past the gas mask grille.

"That's true," she says with a light touch in her voice.

"You shouldn't think about death. You should consider doing something in your last days."

She shakes her head. "Nothing I do will change the world."

"Why would you want to change the world anyway?"

"I don't know... it would have been nice to be remembered."

I fall silent. We've had this conversation before. Hell, we've had it every day. The same words. The same thoughts. "You know I would remember you, right?" I say, following the same script as always.

She nods slowly. "That's true. You'd be the only one."

We sit there for a while, watching the sun go down. "I should make dinner," she says.

"I agree. It's getting late." I stand up and hold my hand out. She takes it and I pull her to her feet, watching her wobble a little. I wish I knew what illness she had. What the poisons did to her. All I know is that it set her on a loop. She’s able to gather new information each day and remember it, and yet she lives each day the same way with few variations. I may be a scientist in the past, but my research consisted of physiological reactions to toxins. Never did I research enough to understand mental illness.

She fixes dinner. Tonight, it's chicken soup, kreplach, and her special salad on the side. I set the table and remove my gas mask as she serves. We sit down and raise our glasses, hers in her right hand, mine in my left as she recites her prayer.

_"Barukh ata Adonai Eloheinu melekh ha'olam shehakol niyah bidvaro."_

She puts the glass down and I do the same. No words pass between us, her no longer talkative and me never have been talkative. We read the books I got from town today instead. And when dinner is finished, we move in unison. It's an odd-numbered day so I wash the dishes while she dries.

"Hadessah, I have something to confess," I say.

For a brief second, I see reminders of her old self. She's making fun of me in her head. Of course she would: that's just how Hadessah is. A quiet upbringing in Be'er Sheva quickly became overpowered by life at Solovetsky and she's no longer afraid of her mischievous thoughts. On top of that, I've changed the daily script.

I can't back down now.

"I love you."

A twinkle appears in her eye. "Straight to the point, I see."

My eyes flick about, looking for something that catches my attention. Ah, the floor. "I'm not good at flirting."

She smiles, tilting her head so her long hair falls around her arm. "That so?" I nod, keeping my breathing steady though my heart races. "Food is a good way to someone's heart."

 _'But we just ate,'_ are my thoughts. And yet, I slip past her and grab one of the fruits off the counter, holding it out to her. "I have brought you food."

She chuckles and takes the peach. "Thank you, Vityushenika." She blesses it, then eats it while we stand in the kitchen. Meanwhile, my mind drives in circles at full throttle. In the past, she always liked to play with her victim's emotions. Apparently, it's my turn now, and I’m not even her enemy.

But she's not going down without a little bit of fight from me. "You still use that long nickname for me,” I say. “Isn't it too much to say?"

"Perhaps. But what are you going to do about it? Kiss me?"

"Yes."

Oops. Didn't mean to say that.

She finishes the peach. "Comedian. Maybe tomorrow. For now, we should sleep." And she's gone into her room to pray before I can say anything.

Women are weird.

The night is uneventful. In the morning, I wake and eat a breakfast salad before Hadessah rises. I leave her a small stuffed gazelle I crocheted for her last night on the table and head into the city center of Sochi.

The entire day is filled with boring Perseus things I've been assigned to do: high action hunting and torturing CIA agents and affiliates in hopes for some information about Russell Adler's whereabouts. Perseus is adamant about catching Adler first before Adler finds him. Easier said than done, especially with a man like Adler. The man has managed to drop off the face of the Earth again, and none of my captured CIA people give me anything worth my time. Five bodies lay in my wake by the time afternoon hits. I leave the slaughterhouse and head back into the mountains to the lone wooden cabin.

Hadessah greets me with a smile and a platter of bread and hummus as a snack. The little gazelle is tucked under her arm. She looks paler and far weaker than yesterday, but she wants to play out our daily routine. I take the tray and we work our way down to the cliff where we sit side by side. Once we’re settled, I remove my gas mask.

She chews a piece of bread carefully, eyes scanning the horizon. "I'm going to die."

"We're all going to die."

"That's true."

I dip a piece of bread into the hummus, the wind stinging my burned cheeks which my gas mask usually covers. Adler may have cut out my eye, which hurt like a bitch on its own, but it was nothing compared to the burns he left along my jaw from his lighter. It still hurts to chew, my skin no longer used to moving so much to fit my jaw around food. Now and then, the charring peels away, and it’s not uncommon for the area to become infected. Proper treatment would have made my recovery smoother. 

"You shouldn't think about death,” I tell her. “You should consider doing something in your last days."

"Nothing I do will change the world," Hadessah says thoughtfully.

"Why would you want to change the world anyway?" _'Says the guy who hunts another man for a living.'_

"I don't know...” She snuggles the gazelle. “It would have been nice to be remembered."

"You know I would remember you, right?"

She nods slowly. "That's true. You'd be the only one to remember and love me."

She remembers my confession.

Shit.

What do I do?

She's closer to me and reaches up to my face, cupping my cheek. Her warm hands block the skin from the cold, and I lean in. "This is new. You never run out of words, Vityushenika," she says. "Tell me, what's on your mind?"

Everything. Every moment I've spent with her. Without any effort, she led me, a ruthless and vengeful man, to consider forgiveness in favour of spending her last days with her. I want to hold her in my arms at night, kiss her under the moonlight, marry her. Maybe start a family if the time allows. I want to create a new life that we can both be proud of. One that could be tracked through pictures and writing, as neither of us had that luxury growing up. She lived the normal life any Israeli woman would, nothing important worth writing down. I lived on the streets: I had no reason to keep a record. I want something that holds her together as her memories fade away, reminding her of a life she led so proudly even through this day.

But I don't say that. I fall back on our default conversation. "I've already said my thoughts. And I still think that nickname is ridiculously long."

"Oh. Shall I change it?"

"Sure," I challenge. "Tell me what you got."

"Vikhor."

"That's not a nickname."

"I don't know any others."

"There's lots of options. Vitenka. Vitya. Vityusha. Vityasha. Good luck to the dyslexics. Vityenchka. Vityula."

"Vikhor."

I huff, slightly amused. "Creativity was never a strong suit of your family, was it?"

"Never has been."

Our faces are close, but we don't kiss. We simply hold our foreheads together and listen to each other's slow breath. Her hands sit on my cheeks, keeping the burned area warm, and my hands play with her long, raven locks.

"I should make dinner," she says quietly.

"I agree. It's getting late." We don't part right away, however. And when we do, I fall in love with her again as our gaze refuses to break for a few more seconds. I finally stand up and take her outstretched hand to help her. We hold hands as we walk inside.

Tonight's dinner is fish and eggs with wine. Once again, she cooks and I set the table. We sit and hold our glasses up as she recites the prayer again. And tonight, I make an effort to follow along. I miss most of the words, but she smiles at my attempt. Then she holds her glass up again, reminding me we have to bless the wine, too.

_"Barukh ata Adonai Eloheinu melekh ha'olam borei p'ri hagafen."_

We read our books as we eat, her fingers petting the gazelle’s head. But neither of us get past one page, too busy stealing a few glances at each other. Sometimes we time it right and catch each other's eye, which makes her giggle while my ears heat up. And when we finish eating, she washes the dishes and I dry. After all, today’s an even-numbered day.

"Vikhor, I have something to confess"

My heart skips a beat. Could this be what I've wanted for so long? Or would she reject me and kick me from the house?

"I don't want you to worry." She says it seriously, then follows up with, "I love you."

"Straight to the point," I chuckle. "Now why would I worry about that?" 

"I don't know."

“Maybe I should flirt better.” I pick up the last peach on the counter. "I have brought you food. Tomorrow I'll get you more."

She chuckles and takes it, eating it after blessing it. "Thank you, Vikhor. Though you should consider new ways to flirt or I'll get bored."

"It's already stressful enough trying to flirt. Russian girls are much easier to woo than Israeli girls.”

"Are you saying I'm too tough for you?" She smirks.

"Maybe," I said. "But what are you going to do about it? Kiss me?"

"Yes."

And suddenly her round and plump are on my near-nonexistent ones. Up this close, I can smell the perfume I gave her for her birthday and the new shampoo she likes. Mixed in between is the fragrance of crisp, Arctic air. Her passion radiates through her slow and deliberate movements against me. More impressively, her frail body deceives an onlooker of her dominance as she leads me to the couch to lay me down. She finds comfort with her chest on mine and our legs entangled.

And when we finally break to breathe, she collapses on top of me, gasping. She's pushed her limits, but from her smile, she doesn't regret it. I kiss the top of her head and hug her as she fiddles lightly with my ear.

"We should sleep," she says.

"We should."

"I don't want to get up."

"You don't have to."

"But I have to pray."

"I'll do it. In English, though, because I don't know how to speak Hebrew."

"You disappoint me."

She settles deeper against me as I close my eyes, trying to remember exactly how the prayer went. But when only bits and parts appear in my head, I decide to half-ass it.

 _"Adonai, may it be Your will that I lie... in peace. Let not my thoughts, my dreams, or my daydreams disturb me. Watch over my family and those I love... I entrust my spirit to You. Thus as I go to sleep...Grant me a night of rest... May I awaken in the morning, refreshed and renewed to face a new tomorrow..."_ I forget exactly how the rest went so I say, "Anyway, rub-a-dub dub, thanks for being a good bud. Yay, Adornai!"

"If I weren't so tired, I would beat you with my shoe, Comedian," she threatens.

"Save it for tomorrow."

She snickers and shortly after she's sound asleep. I remain awake a while longer, admiring her beauty before carrying her bridal style to bed and tucking her in the blankets. Then I slip the gazelle under one arm.

In the morning, Hadessah's snoring, still hugging the gazelle. I eat a breakfast salad and leave, strapping on my gas mask. I spend the day hunting more agents and killing another two people. It's slower because I'm actually getting information out of the one coward MI6 agent and the young CIA agent who wasn’t prepared for his first mission to become a shitshow. And before I head home, I buy some peaches.

Hadessah is sitting at the cliff already. I walk over to her, unclipping my gas mask. "I got you food." She doesn't move.

I sit next to her and study her. She's sleeping, and her lips are blue. Her skin has paled to the point where she doesn't look human.

"Hadessah?" I pat her shoulder, then stop. My hand feels her cheek, but no warmth comes from the waxy skin.

Her nails are slightly green from the poison. And yet her body still has enough mind to hang on to one of the gazelle’s legs.

I take a deep breath as I draw a peach from the bag, unsure what to do with the swirling storm in my stomach. “We’re all going to die.” I don’t think eating will help calm it, but I bite into the peach, my breath shaking. ""You shouldn't think about death. You should consider doing something in your last days," I say, taking another bite. “Why would you want to change the world anyway?"

A salty tear adds flavour to my next bite from the peach.

"You know I would remember you, right?"

**Author's Note:**

> I know, it's not the most accurate in both religious and poisoning aspects. I was just proud of some of the descriptions XD
> 
> Thanks for reading! Hope you enjoyed! Feel free to leave a comment or a kudos... or don't.


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